ZDay
by Insane Troll Logic
Summary: It is commonly speculated that the pub called the Winchester was named for the rifle that sits above the bar. But that’s not true at all.


**Title**: Z-Day  
**Rating**: PG-13 (language, entrails)  
**Disclaimer**: Shaun of the Dead is not mine. Incidentally, neither is Supernatural  
**Summary**: It is commonly speculated that the pub called the Winchester was named for the rifle that sits above the bar. But that's not true at all. (SPN/Shaun of the Dead Crossover)  
**Note**: Written for Sweet Charity for Muffaletta. Betaed by lightningbug.

_**Z-Day**_

Somewhere in England there is a pub called the Winchester where two men called Shaun and Ed sit drinking almost every night. It is commonly speculated that the pub was named for the Winchester rifle that sits above the bar.

But that's not true at all.

* * *

Approximately two days before the infamous zombie attack, the Winchester brothers found their own mug shots plastered against the wall in a Montana gas station. Sam's eyes widened slightly when he spotted it and Dean had to distract the gas station owner while Sam surreptitiously tore if off the wall. Dean paid for the gas with a fake credit card and the cashier peered at the name Nathaniel O'Mally a little too long for comfort.

In the Impala, Sam was silent for the first twenty miles and Dean, fed up with it, pulled off road and tugged the paper out of Sam's hands. He skimmed it over and then looked back at his brother. "You all right, Sam? You haven't said a word since you saw this."

"I think we may be in some trouble, Dean," Sam said. "Big, no getting out of this, death penalty trouble."

"So what?" Dean said. "Sam, I've been arrested more times than I can remember. It's never bothered us before and it's not going to bother us now."

"Did you forget how we just broke out of prison?"

"Did you forget how we got caught on purpose?"

Sam let out a puff of breath, annoyance an all but tangible presence in the car. "Dean, they've gone and put a bounty on us. Before, we could slide under the radar, but start plastering our faces everywhere and tying it to a reward no less? Dean we can't help people if we're worried about getting put away for life!"

"No one's going to find out," Dean protested, examining the paper critically. "Come on, the pictures don't even look like us."

"No, Dean," Sam said. "This isn't like the sketch. That's your mug shot. They even have a description of the Impala."

"They say it's a '69. Any idiot can tell she's a '67. What kind of moron is this Victor Hendrickson anyway?"

"A moron who's going to catch us if we don't start being more careful."

"So what do you suggest we do, Sam?" Dean said gruffly. "Change our appearances? Grow moustaches and trim that floppy mane of yours? Burn off our fingerprints and dye your hair blonde? _Stop hunting_?"

Sam shook his head and turned to stair out the windshield. "Dean, I think we're going to have to leave the country."

"What like go to Mexico?" A grin spread over Dean's face.

"Be serious, Dean."

"I always wanted to go to Mexico," Dean said wistfully.

"You're going to have to take this seriously sometime," Sam said.

Dean shook his head. "No, I really don't."

They didn't talk about the cops for another week.

* * *

One week before the infamous zombie attacks, Dean was checking up on one of his PO boxes in Missouri—one of the few that still bears his real name—and got some rather distressing news. "Looks like old man Winchester finally kicked the bucket."

Sam looked up from the bill of another credit card that would never be paid. "Old man Winchester?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "You know, the one who lives in England. The one we've never met."

"Ah, we've never met him," Sam grumbled. "No wonder I didn't make the connection."

Dean shrugged and skimmed the letter. "Dude, did you know he left us his_ pub_?"

* * *

Three days before the infamous zombie attack, Dean and Sam were doing leg-work on this poltergeist case when they spotted a tail. As Sam was quick to remind Dean, the Impala was not the most inconspicuous vehicle and the feds tracking them were—despite all evidence to the contrary--professionals.

Dean rolled his eyes and goosed the gas, loosing the trail at the next light. Ten minutes later after taking a very round-about route they pull into the town library. "There," Dean said, giving Sam a smug grin. "Nothing to worry about. Let's find out where this son of a bitch is buried."

Ten minutes later, Sam heard Hendrickson's unmistakable voice drift back from the check out counter. He gave his brother a look and Dean tucked the handful of clippings into his jacket while Sam pried open the back window.

Back at the motel, Dean sat down heavily on the bed and said, "How the hell does he find us?"

"The Impala's not exactly stealth, Dean," Sam said. He was packing as fast as he could. "We've got to get out of here now. He's not going to be far behind us."

"The case isn't finished," Dean said. "It's going to hurt someone if we don't stop it!"

"Dean if we don't go, he's going to catch us. We can only stay a step ahead for so long. We really are going to have to leave the country."

They reached a compromise. They were leaving, but at the motel desk, Dean left a thick packet of paper for an Agent Victor Hendrickson. In it was all the research they had on the case and directions on how to salt and burn the corpse. It was accompanied by the following note:

_Hendrickson,_

_Look, if you don't follow through, people are going to get hurt. I know you think we're crazy, but we're just trying to help. There are bigger things out there to worry about than me._

They left for England the next morning. It was depressingly easy to forge the passports and slip through airport security especially considering Sam and Dean were verging into the FBI's most wanted.

By the way, nothing in hell that would make Dean talk about that flight.

Sam on the other hand, would tell you in a heartbeat.

* * *

As Dean was bitching about attempting to drive clutch with his left hand and scanning stations looking for decent music Sam was straining to hear snatches of the same news report that seemed to be on every station. "The American deep-space probe Omega unexpectedly re-entered Earth's atmosphere over England and broke apart over..."

AC/DC crackled onto the radio and Dean said, "That's more like it."

"Hey," Sam protested, "I was listening to that."

"Driver picks the music," Dean mumbled and pulled out and onto the wrong side of the road.

* * *

And really, considering all the experience they had, Sam and Dean should have recognized the zombie attack way earlier than they actually did--but really how many times do you have the chance to get drunk for free in your own pub? They commandeered a booth and a bottle of scotch and Dean complained about the lack of female company which Sam tried to enjoy himself. There weren't many in the pub at all and Sam was just fine with that, because he and Dean really needed the chance to unwind without having to worry about Hendrickson and the feds crawling up their ass.

Dean made fun of him for being such a lightweight but Sam with remarkable composure for his state pointed out from their booth to a big guy doing a monkey impression while a pasty looking guy with tears on his cheek giggled.

"You've got a good point there," muttered Dean who sounded about half as drunk as Sam. "But don't mock the monkey, dude. I doubt you could do an impression half as awesome."

Really, trying the monkey impersonation, sounded like an awesome idea at the time.

He barely even noticed Dean whipping out his cell phone to take the pictures.

* * *

There was an apartment above the pub where Grandpa Winchester used to live. Sam felt a little weird about invading the personal space of someone he barely knew, but as Dean insisted, Sam was piss drunk and getting him up the stairs was hard enough without even thinking about getting him back down.

They did rock paper scissors for the bed. Sam picked paper. Dean came up with scissors like he always did. Sam stared at his hand and cursed. Dean laughed and mumbled something about washing up. While he was in the bathroom, Sam flopped down on the bed and fell asleep.

He woke up on the floor the next morning with a nasty hangover and a mouth full of dust. His only conciliation was the moaning that drifted to his ears through the stale air. "Dean?" he mumbled, pushing himself to a sitting position. "Please say I'm not the only one with a hangover."

What Sam expected to hear was something like, 'Dude, shut up already,' or maybe 'Rise and shine, princess.' What he got instead was. "Dude, there are totally zombies outside."

"Not funny," Sam said. "That's the last mental image I need right now."

"No," Dean said. "There are really a fucking lot of zombies outside right now."

It was definitely a labor, but Sam managed to draw himself up and pull himself to the window. The light outside was blindingly bright and he had to squint to make out the unmistakable lurching physique of several dozen zombies.

"Huh," Sam said thoughtfully and then went into the bathroom to puke.

* * *

"We need more guns," Dean said thoughtfully. "If we don't get out there to stop it, no one is going to."

"This is no small-scale thing," Sam said. "That's a lot of zombies, I'm hungover and the only weapons we've got are loaded with rock salt."

"I saw a Winchester over the bar. Knowing our family, it's not just for show."

Dean was pacing the room back and forth and it was making Sam unbearably dizzy. The news was talking about the dead reanimated and that was actual footage of a zombies lurching down the street right there on the news. Sam raised an eyebrow when he first heard the phrase 'removing the head or destroying the brain,' but Dean just shrugged and asked if Sam could explain it any better.

When the television flickered out just after noon, Dean grabbed his jacket and said, "That's it, I'm bored. I'm going to go grab the rifle and any ammo and try some target practice. How about you find a blunt object and come with me."

"Dean stop. You don't know how many of them are out there."

"Dude, they're zombies. You know, the dullest, slowest-moving, un-intimidating monster imaginable. We've done zombies before."

"Zombie," Sam corrected. "We've done one zombie before. We could take around fifty between us, but really, how many more are out there?"

"You do know there's a gun downstairs, right?"

"Assuming there aren't zombies downstairs already and assuming there are some shells around and assuming the shot gun doesn't attract even more--"

"I get it," Dean said sullenly with a look on his face like Sam just kicked his puppy or worse, dented his car. "I just don't want to wait here."

Sam had never been able to figure out what it was about zombies that got Dean so worked up. Ghosts and vampires were grim matters, but mention zombies and Dean started bouncing around like a kid in a candy store. Even though Sam had pulled the plug on the actual hunting, Dean spent the next few hours comparing the merits of various zombie movies until Sam pointed out that if he wanted zombies, he could just go stare out the window.

After that, Dean contented himself with skimming the internet to find clips of the zombies which he sent to every single FBI e-mail he could find with snide little notes about flesh eaters.

At half past five, Dean looked over at Sam and said, "You know this isn't going to just blow over. There's no way in hell the government can handle a zombie apocalypse. I'm just about fed up with all the moaning."

That's about the time they heard the window downstairs shatter.

* * *

"You broke the fucking window," Dean said dumbly. "You're looking to hide out in a pub and you broke the fucking window?"

The tall skinny one who looked a little like Harry Potter, pushed his glasses farther up his nose and straightened his back. "I was forced to act decisively."

"Right, and that involves breaking the window of your fucking safe hold."

"Calm down, Dean," Sam said because the last thing he needed was his brother taking out his zombie-related frustrations on this frazzled moron.

"We need to find a new place to stay," Dean said, just short of screaming. "It's not safe here."

"Who the hell are you anyway," the enormous one said, glancing up from his cell phone. "Me and Shaun come 'round here every night and I haven't ever seen your face before?"

Dean blinked and turned to Sam. "Dude did you understand any of that? It's like a freaking different language."

"Look," the blonde said firmly, "we're not going anywhere until Shaun gets back."

Oddly, that was the last of the protesting.

* * *

When Shaun did get back he brought a plan Dean decided to support whole heartedly. And the plan was to sit in the dark, eat pre-packaged peanuts and get drunk.

Sam, having sworn off all alcohol as of about ten o'clock that morning, couldn't do much but watch and listen to the moans from the zombie hoards outside. Dean had pulled the Winchester off of the mantel and found a case of shells in a drawer. He was drinking and laughing, but Sam could always pick up on Dean's acts; the way he clutched at the gun on his lap and the way his jaw tensed even as he tried to smile.

The others seemed just as tense. There was the enormous foul-mouthed idiot called Ed, the pretty bottle blonde called Liz, David the Harry Potter look-alike with a stick up his ass, Dianne the peppy actress, Shaun the defacto leader and Shaun's mom. Then there were Sam and Dean who actually knew what the fuck they were doing. Unsurprisingly no one was willing to listened to them.

Shaun disappeared into the back room to reset the circuits that Sam had very deliberately cut when this all started. The lights flickered on and a second later, Shaun reappeared looking pale and slack jawed. "I think we might have a bit of a problem," he said.

Shaun disappeared into the back room to reset the circuits that Sam had very deliberately cut when this all started. The lights flickered on and a second later, Shaun reappeared looking pale and slack-jawed. "I think we might have a bit of a problem," he said.

"Aw, hell," Dean said, though he looks more excited then fearful. "They followed you."

"I thought you said you gave them the slip?"

Sam was not exactly sure what happened next just that there was lot of shouting and running and then there was _freaking Queen_ crooning from the juke box and a zombie in the middle the club.

Dean gaped at the scene for a long moment and even thought their tactics left a lot to be desired, Sam couldn't help but be impressed by the sheer gusto with which the ragtag group was attacking the zombie, but it quickly became clear that this zombie wasn't going to go down that easy. Sam nudged Dean lightly. "Oh, right," Dean said, raising the gun and taking aim.

A second later, there was a hole in the zombie's head and Shaun roaring in Dean's face, "What the fuck was that?! What happens if you take that shot and miss? You could have hit any one of us, you crazy fucker!"

"I don't miss," Dean said calmly but Shaun still looked mad enough to take a swing at him and probably would have if it hadn't been for the second wave of zombies. He turned to Sam with a little half smile. "Hey, turns out rock salt works just fine."

The problem with the zombies was the mass more than anything and between the two of them, Sam was pretty sure they could stem the onslaught.

"What the hell is wrong with them?" Sam growled, gesturing to the mutiny on the other side of the room.

Dean glanced over. "Son of a bitch, I think the mom's been bitten."

All the enjoyment of the zombie attack had left Dean's face when he moved to take care of business.

* * *

It got worse from there. The shattered window at the front of the pub was about the worst cover possible and there were a lot of zombies around and Dean only had so many bullets. They would have been fine if the tall uptight one hadn't gone standing in front of the window, which sent the legions lurching into the pub.

"You know what Sam?" Dean hissed at his side. "We should make a run for it, do a distraction."

"Are you insane?" Sam asked.

"C'mon," Dean insisted. "They're freaking zombies. Slow as hell. Besides, it'll be awesome. Like the end of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and with any luck we'll buy these guys some time."

"Dean..."

"That's the whole point of this gig, right? Protect the innocent."

"Dean!"

"Yeah, Sam?"

Sam drew his gun and smiled. "I've got a few rounds left, let's go for it."

Dean grinned. "That's what I like to hear." He turned to Liz and Shaun. "We're going to draw them away. You're going to want to find someplace where you can narrow them out, stay alive until we can get back to you."

"What the fuck are you doing!" Liz shrieked.

"Yeah!" Shaun echoed. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Go out guns blazing," Dean said with a cocky grin and they charged.

* * *

Later, Dean would complain about the Army one-upping them in their moment of glory.

At the time, they were both just happy to be alive.

* * *

They stuck around for a couple weeks after Z-Day because the thing about a zombie attack was that it raised a hell of a lot of interest in the paranormal. Sam and Dean were happy to give some enlightenment.

Six weeks after Z-Day they saw the first zombie at the casher's line in the supermarket and Dean decided that the charm of the place was gone.

Because seriously, it shouldn't be a crime to put a bullet through that damned thing's skull.

(end)


End file.
